The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a loud snore. “Well, sire!” said the duke, “what does your majesty say?” “I think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; convoke, then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I will choose the chief.” “When, sire?” “To-morrow.” The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was about to do the same, when the king said,-- “Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.” CHAPTER XXXVIII. CASTOR AND POLLUX. The king dismissed all his favorites, and remained with his brother. The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably composed countenance throughout, believed himself unsuspected, and remained without fear. “My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you know that I am a very happy prince?” “Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from Heaven for your merits.” “Yes, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which has occurred to my cousin Guise.” The duke make a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes to watch the king’s face. “Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all the Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or Spain, without alarming any of them--do you know, François, it is a magnificent idea?” “Is it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted. “Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author of this fine project.” Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had seen on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible smiles, and he was satisfied. “Yes,” continued Henri, “I repeat such a project merits recompense, and I will do what I can for the author of this good work, for the work is begun--is it not, my brother?” The duke confessed that it was. “Better and better; my subjects not only conceive these good ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put them in execution. But I ask you, my dear François, if it be really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal thought?” “No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty years ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for the time.” “Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with that air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the day, “his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What can I do for him?” “Sire,” said François, completely duped by his brother, “you exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited the idea, and another man has given him great help in developing it.” “His brother the cardinal?” “Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean him.” “Mayenne, then?” “Oh! sire, you do him too much honor.”